Читать книгу The Man from Painted Rock - Jackson Gregory - Страница 5

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“You little weak-eyed rabbit!” choked Hard Ross, as he stood over the form stretched upon the ground, both big fists doubled now with knuckles fast growing white. “I’ve stood about all my constitution’s good for since sunup. You get up an’ you apologize, or by all that’s holy, I’ll slap the white face clean off’n you!”

This from man to master! This from a hired cowhand to a man who must be close to a millionaire to purchase an outfit like the Up and Down! Mr. Sherrod gazed at him as if stupefied, and made no attempt to get to his feet. He moved a little, found the glasses at his side, held them up to his nose, and stared up into the flushed face above him. From it he stared at the circle of other faces. And when he had seen only rage on the one distorted countenance, amused contempt on the others, he fumbled with his glasses, dropped them, and said querulously:

“I say, Ross, this is no way to cut up, you know. I—I may have been mistaken. I—well, I was a trifle angry, I suppose. No doubt you are honest enough.”

Ross turned his back square upon the owner of the Up and Down.

“You boys don’t take any more orders off’n me,” he said quietly. “It’s up to you an’ this city guy.”

And he strode back to the bunkhouse, slammed the door after him, and went to throwing into a barley sack what few of his personal effects he would take with him when he rode out looking for a new job.

Mr. Sherrod looked after the rude departure with uplifted eyebrows, and then got slowly to his feet, one hand laid upon the cheek which Hard Ross had struck, the other beating the dust out of his trousers and coat.

“I call you men to witness that the assault was unprovoked,” he said sharply. “Now, go about your work. Do whatever that man had told you to do for the day. I—I’m a trifle upset. Any man with any sort of sensibilities would be. Merciful goodness!—I’ll give you your orders tomorrow.”

They went, went in a whirlwind of dust and gleeful laughter, seeking as much to hide the one as the other. And Mr. Sherrod took a step toward the bunkhouse door, stopped, rubbed his chin reflectively, and finally threw the door open.

“You’re going to quit?” he demanded, his foot on the threshold.

“No,” snapped Ross. “I’ve quit already.”

“Is—is it necessary,” Sherrod said hesitatingly, “for you to go this way, without any warning?”

“For the love of God!” cried Hard Ross wonderingly. “Do you want me to knock you down first and then keep on working for you?”

“Why, I don’t want you to knock me down at all. I never wanted that. But I say, a man ought to be reasonable. I want you to stay a day or so and sort of look after things until I can get my hand in. Oh,” he put in hurriedly, “no doubt the work is easy enough and simple. But then for a man to pitch right in, his first day on a cow ranch, and run it—Come now. Be a good fellow, Ross. I made a mistake, and we’ll forget it. I want you to stay.”

Hard Ross put down his sack, went to a bunk, sat down and sought for paper and tobacco.

“I don’t quite get you, stranger,” he said heavily. “I just knocked you as flat as a doormat, didn’t I? An’ now you’re asking me to forget an’ stick on the job? Say, what are you giving me?”

“I’m giving you seventy-five dollars a month and board and room,” the new owner answered quickly. “And I tell you I want you to run this ranch for me until I can get the swing of it. It may take me a month, I don’t know how long.”

“A month!” gasped Hard Ross. He forgot to roll into a cigarette the tobacco he had poured into his paper. “You learn to run a cow outfit in a month!”

“Well, well,” said Sherrod quickly. “I’ll do my best. And, say, you’ll stay won’t you? There’s a good fellow.”

Ross looked at him with open, unconcealed contempt. But Hard Ross was thinking. Jobs like this were not plentiful. If he gave this one up, he might be months getting anything better than the poor wages the rest of the boys drew. Then there was Bull Plummer still to settle with, and there was Hawley—and Silver Slippers. Somehow it galled him to keep his place under a man like Sherrod. And yet ...

“It’s your range, Mr. Sherrod.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “If you want me to stay, why, I’ll stay.”

“Then it’s settled,” Mr. Sherrod sighed and came on into the room.

He found a chair, disposed his tall frame in it languidly, brought a fresh cigar from his vest pocket, saw through his nose-glasses that the fine Sumatra wrapper had come to grief in his recent violent meeting with his tempestuous foreman, tossed it away, selected another, lighted it very carefully, and surveyed Hard Ross through the upcurling smoke.

“I want a word or two with you before the day’s work begins.”

“Fire ahead,” muttered Hard Ross.

“I’ve brought an outfit along with me,” said Mr. Sherrod with dignity. “I got it in the city, and the man who sold it to me told me that it was just a little bit of all right. Now, I’m in for this game, Ross, and I’m going to start today. First thing, I want you to look over my things and pass on them. Will you do it?”

Ross grumbled out a curt, “Sure.” Mr. Sherrod seemed upon the point of giving an order, hesitated, and rising swiftly went out to his touring car. From his pile of baggage he brought forth a neat black bag which with his own white hands he lugged into the bunkhouse. From the bag he brought forth articles which caused Hard Ross to gasp with astonished amusement.

There were all the “trimmings” of a theatrical cowpuncher. A brand-new Stetson with an enormously wide soft brim, a scarlet neck-scarf, a bright blue silk shirt, a pair of black boots with monstrously high heels, a pair of spotlessly white chaps, a bridle with Spanish bit whose silver chasings flashed gaily in the morning sunlight. And—Hard Ross drew in a deep, lung-filling breath and nearly choked on it—there was a broad cartridge belt with two heavy-caliber Colt revolvers swinging from it. The cook, upon the verge of stifling, and mindful of keeping the best job he had ever had, went hurriedly outside for a bucket of water.

“Are they all right?” queried Mr. Sherrod, his gaze as full of anxiety as a child’s as he laid one article after the other upon the table.

“They’re sure all right!” answered Hard Ross.

“And—I haven’t forgotten anything, have I?” Mr. Sherrod asked even more anxiously.

“Good Lord, no!” burst fervently from Hard Ross. “You haven’t missed a bet!”

Mr. Sherrod’s sigh bespoke a vast satisfaction. He smiled upon his foreman with returning amiability.

“I say, Ross,” he said eagerly, “I don’t doubt that we’re going to forget all about our little misunderstanding of this morning, aren’t we? I dare say we’re going to be real friends when we get to understand each other. Now, I’ve come out here to go to work with my sleeves rolled up, to speak figuratively. I haven’t brought any foolish notions along with me. I’m willing to forget the difference in our stations and consider that we’re just men and equals on the job. That’s fair, now, isn’t it?”

“That’s fair,” returned Ross, his head down now, his big fingers very busy with his cigarette-building.

“I’m going to show you that I mean business.” Mr. Sherrod was divesting himself of his outer clothing as he spoke, and began to don hastily the gay regalia of the Behind-the-Footlights cowboy costume. “I’m going out to ride over the ranch with you this morning.” He jerked on his snow-white chaps and buckled his belt about his waist, a heavy revolver swinging in its new holster at each hip. “The first thing will be a horse. Say, Ross, is there an extra saddle-animal on the ranch that—er—that is full of life and all that and yet that—er—that a man can trust? That won’t go to bucking, you know?”

Hard Ross’s first thought had dallied with the temptation of giving this man the worst horse of the outfit. Now he felt ashamed of himself.

“The pore devil’s trying to be a man, anyhow,” he told himself thoughtfully. “He’s trying to be fair.” And he decided to pick out one of the older, quieter horses for his new boss.

“There’s just one more thing, and we can go to work.” Mr. Sherrod paused, saw that the cook had gone down to an outhouse for something, and went on swiftly, “I guess I did make a mistake this morning, Ross. I want you to forget it. Will you—Do you ever drink anything?”

“I ain’t ever missed the chance,” grinned Ross. “Not since I was ten.”

“Just after breakfast—you don’t mind that?”

“There’s just three times a man ought to drink licker,” Ross informed him gravely. “One is before meals, one is during meals, an’ the other is between meals. Don’t wait on me.”

Mr. Sherrod laughed, seemed again upon the verge of giving an order, thought better of it, and went back to the automobile. He brought out a large suitcase this time, lugged it into the bunkhouse, closed the door, and opened the suitcase.

From the suitcase came a bottle, and there was scarcely a flicker of surprise in Hard Ross’s steady eyes when he saw that the thing he was called upon to drink to forgetfulness of an insult and to a better understanding, was champagne. The bottle popped, and they drank from two thick earthen coffee cups. And when they had done, Hard Ross, a little apologetically, asked:

“You haven’t got any whisky along, have you? Just to wash the taste out with?”

Then they had whisky together. And then, side by side, they went down to the corral, Mr. Sherrod in glittering new spurs, boots, chaps, and nose-glasses. When the proper horses were lassoed by Ross’s unerring rope, a gentle old mare for the new owner, a wild, untamed brute of a four-year-old for the foreman, they rode away together across the rolling floor of the valley. And when, an hour later, they met a couple of the boys cutting out a herd of calves at the north corrals, Hard Ross, being a gentleman in the uncouth heart of him, looked straight and steadily ahead and gave no sign of having seen the drooping eyelids and keen delight upon the faces which greeted the spectacular appearance of Mr. Sherrod, owner of the Up and Down cattle outfit.